Tales from the Treadmill

When I was in high school, the empty parking lot across from our house spontaneously turned into a health and racquetball club. Seemingly overnight, the place where I used to ride my bike for free became a place where I could now ride a stationary bike for thirty dollars a month.

I don’t remember exactly how or when, but I did end up with a membership. I played racquetball more often than I used the stationary bikes and I actually did enjoy going there. It’s a time I now look back on fondly, if only because it was the last time in my life I could go to a health club and not feel embarrassed about my body. After all, health clubs are for the young and fit, not for the middle-aged, flabby and balding.

One day (and I’m pretty sure it was just the one day) my dad decided to come along. I’m not sure if this particular visit would have been memorable outside of the fact that he didn’t have a proper gym bag to put his stuff in. Instead, he put everything into a paper grocery sack.

“Is it all right if I come in two minutes after you?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Well,” I hesitated. “All your stuff is in a grocery bag.”
“So?”
“So …. well, no one brings their stuff in a paper sack.”
“So?”

I guess dads just don’t understand the importance of conformance.

Now, fast forward *cough*-seven years or so. Right across the street from our current house (give or take two miles) a big empty lot spontaneously turned into an absolutely ginormous Life Time Fitness center. The place where I could have been riding my bike for free will now charge $150 a month for the same privilege. Two days ago we signed up for a free seven day trial and last night was my first visit.

I know I need to exercise. And, to my credit, I have been walking nearly every day. I do it in the afternoon while I’m at work. It’s rarely for more than twenty minutes at a time, but it’s better than nothing (or so I tell myself). There’s no doubt a dedicated gym would open up a whole new world of exercising possibilities but let’s face it, health clubs are for the young and fit, not for the middle-aged, flabby and balding.

My not-flabby and not-balding fifteen year old daughter asked if I wanted to go check it out. It was Day Two of the trial and she didn’t want to waste a minute of it. I’d just gotten home from work, but we were running late and we had to leave quickly. I grabbed a T-shirt and shorts, stuffed them in a bag, and we arrived minutes before the nine o’clock cut-off time for trial memberships.

I headed to the locker room for a quick change. As I settled in front of my locker, I suddenly remembered the undergarments I was wearing: that funny pair of boxers I got for my birthday. The front is festooned with Terry Gilliam’s cartoon figures from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. On the back, in very large letters, is the movie quote, “I Fart In Your General Direction.” I thought to myself, “Wow, what I wouldn’t give to be carrying a paper grocery sack instead.” Had I a fifteen year old son instead, I would most definitely be getting lectured at this point about the importance of conformance.

“And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?'”
— Once in a Lifetime by the Talking Heads

I casually waited for the aisle to clear, changed in a splintered second, then darted out of the locker room. I rejoined my daughter outside and we headed upstairs to The Floor. As I emerged from the staircase, I was greeted by at least five hundred odd stationary exercising implements: treadmills, stair machines, spinning bikes, and the like. It was actually a bit mind-boggling to think of the millions spent building this facility and the millions more members will pay to just move around in one place for thirty minutes on end.

We tried some sort of cycling machine first. It was cool in that it came with a built-in television. It was not so cool in that no matter what I did, it kept cranking the resistance up to the max. My peddling would repeatedly grind to a halt as the machine essentially locked up and my thighs caught fire. After five minutes of this, I left, having burned 32 calories—due solely, I’m sure, to cursing.

I gradually moved from one machine to the next, trying to see what might suit me the best. Five minutes here, ten minutes there. Thirty calories burned here, forty there. All I could think of was how it only takes me ten seconds to ingest three hundred calories. Hello, cruel world.

I felt somewhat dejected at the thought of the long road treadmill ahead of me, but by the end of the evening I started doing the math. Sure, maybe it was only 30-40 calories burned at a time, but I tried at least ten different machines and exercises. So that’s really 300-400 calories for the ninety minutes we were there. I guess it does add up. Perhaps this isn’t just a torture chamber.

And much to my surprise, I was one pound lighter today. Not to mention, extraordinarily hungry. I’d better get back to the fridge before I faint from a severe bacon deficiency.